Word Calculator.

Sometimes when I type on my iPhone
I feel like I'm using a calculator
The words mere numbers in a mathematical equation
But the keys can't convey feeling
So the sum of the parts don't have the meaning
Of the wholeness of a spoken word.

Deepest Darkest Secret

In college, my friends and I made up the game "D Squared S" also known as "Deepest Darkest Secrets."  We would sit around late at night telling each other our innermost thoughts and feelings.  Despite the intimacy of the game, the secrets often involved new found crushes or worries about social circumstances.  But regardless, we loved to play the game, shrieking at each others' personal gossip or listening to one's concerns.

Recently, there has been something deep and quiet that has arisen in the trenches of my heart.  It has sat there so quietly that for a very long time I didn't even know it was there.  And every once in a while, I'll think to myself, "can this be? is this true?" But only recently did I finally admit to myself that indeed this secret is how I truly feel.  And it was so shocking and surprising and seemingly out of character that it took me a while to register.

My D Squared S is:

I don't believe in myself.

That is a stark and scary statement to hear myself say aloud and I still want to pretend that it's probably not true. However I cannot let it remain cloaked and entrenched in other thoughts, remaining unrecognizable in my consciousness.  I have recognized it as what it is.  And while I may be confident that I am competent in my daily tasks or profession, and I may be optimistic in my future goals, my deepest darkest fear is that I will not lead the life of purpose of which I think I am capable.  I do not trust myself to do what I think I should do.

A few weeks ago, at a Faherty Family Barbeque, I stood in the kitchen washing off scallops while my eventual family members, Jack and Michael, prepped the meat.  The men had just suffered the loss of their dad and father-in-law, respectively.  Despite the upbeat tone of the night, a heaviness weighed in the air that allowed for a deepness of discussion.  As we seasoned and chopped, Michael suddenly asked, "What is your biggest fear?"  While my normal response usually would have been squirrels and turbulence, after a second (and the reality of the funeral the day before), I responded "the death of someone I loved."  And then I paused, realizing that my statement was not entirely true.  Fearing the death of another, while rational, is entirely outside my control.  And the things that I truly fear the most are not what I cannot control, but that which I can, but do not.  So, I changed my answer and it was the first time I outwardly admitted my secret to others:

Failure.

I am not talking about the failure to attain physical wealth or prestige or fame.  I am not talking about the failure of relationships.  I am talking about failing my true self, failing my spirit--that is, the failure to pursue the journey that my soul has dictated I must pursue. Of course, I am still figuring out what I am "supposed to do," but the signs have pointed to a particular road and it's just up to me to follow the signs and listen to directions.   But so often, though I see the signs up ahead, I subconsciously (or consciously) choose to take a side-trip, distracted by social fun or self-absorption or security or internet distractions.  So my biggest fear is that I'll stray from that "yellow brick road" and wake up one day in complete comfort, removed from the realities of the poor and the hungry and the struggling, and think, "what about all those who are suffering that I have left behind?"  "What about the people whose paths I refused to cross because it was inconvenient?" "What about the dreams that I had in my youth that I let deaden because of proclaimed impracticalities?"  And if I have to ask those questions one day and I cannot honestly say that I pursued my heart's desires, the tears will fall...because I have failed.

And this is my fear.  Instead of convincing myself otherwise, I'm trying to embrace this fear and convert it to a motivator as opposed to an inhibitor.  I try to carry the fear along with me so when I start to go astray it can poke its head up, but before it can whisper "I told you so," I'm going to U-turn back to my path.  I'm going to let the shadow of a girl who doesn't believe in herself follow me around as I go, knowing that a shadow has no power to dictate the direction of a woman walking in the sun.  And then perhaps one day, in my older age, I will share secrets with my daughter at bedtime, and tell that my deepest darkest secret was that "I once believed that I couldn't do it, but I did."

We're the SAME.

Many of you may have heard me shriek "we're the SAAAAME" when a tiny commonality arises.  (we're both the middle child? we're both reading the same book? we both love the same singer? Then..."we're the SAME!")    The expression began as a joke between me and my friend Bri during law school.  As our friendship began to bud, we began to realize that despite our physical, familial, religious, and political differences, we both loved baths, long walks, our feelings, calamari, and red wine.  "Ohmygoodness, we're the SAAAAME!" Bri shrieked, elongating her vowels to add 4 more syllables to the word and throwing her dainty upward-facing palms on her hips.   And such was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Soon we were sharing the expression left and right, without discern and without regard of our audience.  Most people didn't get the saying (which obviously made perfect sense), but we kept saying it regardless, and it became deeply entrenched into my daily language. My family was NOT amused.  "Um...I hate it when you say that because we're NOT the same" my sister responded one day.  "But we kinda are." I smirked."  No, we're not."  "Maybe a LITTLE bit?" "No." My brother didn't get the expression either, rolling his eyes every time I shrieked it in his ear.  Even my mom gave me the "look" when I said it (although she was forever won over when I wrote her a poem for Mother's Day called "Why We're the SAME.")  My dad was the only one who didn't seem to mind, in large part because he always agreed, that, indeed, we were the same (sucker).
 
Soon enough, the saying flowed so freely from my lips that I began to lose control of its usage.  On the third day of my clerkship, I wore a red shirt, as did my co-clerk.  "Look at you matching," my Judge joked. "It's because we're the SAAME!" I shrieked, throwing my upward palms on my hips.  Silence.  Really awkward silence.  "I mean...not really..it's this saying that...well, nevermind, anyways, back to the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure..."

Despite my excessive and inappropriate timing of the phrase, perhaps the irony behind it all is . . . we really are all the same.  Deep down, fundamentally the same.  And this sameness arises from our one true basic desire: to be loved.  At the end of the day, that's really all any one of us wants.   The only thing that differs is how that desire manifests.

The Enneagram, an ancient personality test, believes that there are only 9 personality types in this world (ranging from 1-9), and the differences of personality depend on how each number manifests this desire to be loved.  1's seek love through perfection; 2's seek love by providing for others; 3's seek love through achievement; 4's seek love through expression; 5's seek love through their intellectual capabilities; 6's seek love through loyalty; 7's seek love by being fun; 8's seek love by being in control; and 9's seek love by maintaining the peace.  (My number is a 9, which brings up all sorts of interesting issues which I'll psychoanalyze in another blog entry, but if you're interested in finding out your "number" you can go to www.enneagraminstitute.com.)

So even though I may be one number and you may be another, and our personalities may drive each other crazy, there is freedom in realizing that our differences actually stem from our same deepest desire for approval and love.  We're both just acting in the most best way we know how to achieve it. And this realization can break through the barriers of personality and behavior, allowing us to connect--vulnerable heart to vulnerable heart.

And so, if fundamentally our hearts beat to this same beat for love, maybe I won't be retiring the phrase, if, indeed, we really are the SAME.

My Sleeping Diva

You lie there on the pillow

Eyes closed

Elbow extended

Palm propped upward against your face

Faint smile on your lips

As if you are posing while you dream

I will call you my sleeping diva.

For the Man on the Street

Last week, after finishing my blog entry on the strength of expressing sadness, I closed my computer and got ready for the day. Feeling energetically drained from the occurrences of the weeks prior, I was hyper-aware of my own emotional delicacy. In other words, I was feeling particularly self-absorbed.

As I left my apartment building in a fog, I grabbed my phone to call my mom, hoping to distract myself from my own feelings. She answered, but told me she would call me back. Ugh, I thought to myself, knowing I was now forced to be more present on my walk than I wanted. A block later, as I was about to cross the street, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. On the other side of the street, there was a man, face up, his upper body on the side walk and his legs extended into the street. Oh my God, I thought, as I quickly walked to see what was going on. Even before I could get a glimpse of him, an older Latino man threw his phone at me. "Talk to them, tell them this problem." "Ummm.." I stammered into the phone, looking down at the man for the first time and instantly having a pit form in my stomach.

--Oh God, ok, there's a man, I think he fell, his face is bloody, he is bleeding from the mouth.

--How old is he? the 911 responder asked

-45 to 50, I think.

--Is he conscious?

--Not really, I don't know, I mean he's not speaking, but he's moving his arms.

--Is he homeless? What else can you tell me about him?

--No, I don't think so. No, he's not. He, I don't know what happened, I just walked up, but I think he fell, and i think he hit his head. He's kind of shaking a little. I don't...know.

--Ok, we're sending someone.

When the 911 responder hung up, the Latino man thanked me, took his phone, and started to walk away. "Wait!" I cried after him desparetely. "No worry," he said, "ambulance will come." Then he walked away. I looked down at the man on the street. His glasses were by his side, broken. He was shaking, slightly, and for the first time he looked up at me and whispered, "please." Oh God, I thought to myself, I am not equipped to deal with this.

"It's ok, you'll be ok," I responded in a panic, "the ambulance is coming." I stood over him, torn between looking him in the eye and looking frantically around the street for the hopefully soon to be coming ambulance. Part of me wanted to touch him, but the other part shied away from such an act of intimacy with a stranger, even one that was struggling. People continued to walk by, some looking down at him inquisitively, others kept walking, looking straight ahead. A man stopped over him, "did you call the ambulance?" he asked me. "Yeah, yeah...they're coming.." I assured him.

The man then started to squirm and tried to lift his head off the ground, but quickly let it drop back onto the concrete, his head making a sick thud as it landed. It was only then that I knelt down beside him, and put my scarf under his head. The man stared straight into me, his blue eyes pleading. "Please...please..please.." he whispered again.

And then he grabbed my hand.

I took a deep breath and held his hand. It was warm. He squeezed mine. I squeezed back. A crowd was now starting to form. "This man..he is dying," someone stated knowingly. "Where is the ambulance?" another asked. I picked up the phone and called 911 again. "I'm on 7 and A, we're still waiting for the ambulance. He's not doing well. I don't know what's going on, but he needs help." "They're on their way," they stated.

15 minutes later, the ambulance arrived. I let go of the man's hand and stood over him with the rest of the crowd and watched as the ambulance put him on the stretcher. When the medics asked him his name, he could not respond. When the man was in the back, a medic picked up his broken glasses and, before we could ask any questions, jumped in the ambulance and drove off. The crowd dispersed. I stayed on the corner for a moment, trying to register everything that just happened. "I guess I'll head to work?" I asked myself, and burst into tears. Only, unlike the hour before, my tears were no longer for myself or my personal burdens. These tears were for the man on the street, whose name I did not know, whose prognosis I did not know, and whose life expectancy I did not know. These unknowns will forever remain. I would like to think, one day, I'll see him in the neighborhood walking around, and can smile at him when he passes. But perhaps, my only connection with him will forever be confined to the corner of 7th and Avenue A.

Sometimes, amidst the self-absorption of our own lives, our lives are slammed into the life of another. And in that moment, we must make a decision to use the collision to connect with that person or keep on walking. And if we choose to engage, the connection may be as subtle as a smile or a nod or as intimate as the warmth of a touch. And whether that act is enough or not will most likely remain forever indeterminable. But regardless of whether the warmth of my hand was enough for the man on the corner of 7th and Avenue A, I know that the warmth of his hand was enough for me. At least enough for me to remember the strength of the human connection and the power of the human touch. So, to the man on the street, thank you for awakening my heart. May you be healthy and well, wherever you are.

How do you really feel?

One thing I notice about myself is my inability to sit with pain. When I feel it, physically or emotionally, I want to rid myself of it. I justify distracting myself from pain, by arguing that for the benefit of my emotional health, it should pass quickly and quietly. Not only do I struggle with allowing myself to sit with pain, but I struggle with honestly sharing my pain with those outside of my family.

It is not unheard of that my closest friends will ask me a question, I'll answer, and right after they'll say, "ok, but how to you REALLY feel?" This usually results in a melting of inhibitions and an answer embodied with a deeper and more emotional response. But it takes slightly more of an effort to bring these responses to the surface. Why am I quick to share my joys, but slower to share my sorrows?

If there is an epidemic in this country, it is not the suffering itself, but the sickness of "desperate attempts to avoid suffering." We have become a society that despises pain. If it is physical, we numb it with medicine. If it is mental, we distract it with noise, internet, or tv. If it is emotional, we view it as weakness and therefore repress it in addiction, avoidance, or silence.

When people are going through a hard time and don't cry, we view them as "strong." When people are struggling and look on the bright side, we say "they have so much faith." But is rare that we look in the face of a crying person and say, "this act of crying is a true sign of courage- to feel sadness in the face of another."

Sharon Salzberg, a renowned Buddhist, noticed that as a society, we rarely are capable of expressing our feelings of pain with others. We often don't respond to "how are you?" with an answer of "I'm sad; I'm hurt; I'm suffering; I'm lonely; I am discouraged." Though these sentiments may later express themselves through further prying, often these feeling remain unnamed.

Salzberg noticed that our society has really only come to accept one word as a socially suitable means of expressing any type of suffering: "stressed." If we feel inadequate at work, if a close friend has ill-health, if our family is going through some struggles, if we do not have time to do that which we love--we tell the world, without hesitation, that "we're stressed." And those who listen can share that they too feel stressed. For whatever reason this word is easier to share. Perhaps, we view "being stressed" as more circumstantial, stemming from external sources, and it is therefore easier to admit since it avoids any commentary on an internal state. Perhaps, it's easier to share because it broadly means "I have a lot on my plate," but it is not specific in that no one has to know the true root of our suffering. But regardless for the reasons of its acceptability, it has become the universal word for pain.

Anger too is much more of an acceptable emotion. And not only are we not scared to share it, but we often find it empowering. Even though anger is merely a different manifestation of pain, we embrace. Our expression of anger hides personal suffering by blaming the pain on the act of another, and, therefore, we are not viewed as weak. When we witness acts or words of anger, rarely do we look at the person with a sense of compassion and think, "here, is a person of true suffering." Rather we think, "I wonder (what someone else did) to make this person angry; I wonder what occurrence (outside the person's control) made this person angry?" Similar to stress, the expression of anger frees the person experiencing it from having to delve into his/her true feelings of hurt and pain with others and with themselves.

How can we be better embrace our feelings of sadness? How can we learn to experience it, instead of fighting it? How can we learn to invite it in when it arises as opposed to trying to distract ourselves from it? Perhaps the mere acknowledgment of the pain is where it must start. Perhaps, when it seeps in, we must say, "hello there sadness, here you are." Perhaps we must sit with it and observe how it feels; not trying to fight it, but trying to engage in it-hand in hand. And perhaps when people ask how we are and we feel it, we can have the strength to look people in the eye and share, "right now, I am sad. But that is ok." And perhaps in doing so, this will be a true act of strength. And then, sadness will no longer be a weakness.

Two-word prayer.

there are days when my prayers only get as far as

a deep sigh that exhales "dear God..."

but, sometimes, that seems to be enough